Disorder That's Yet Undiagnosed

pollutes my mind with pencil shavings. I
can’t keep perspective when I don’t feel
sharp. With no concept of time, the min-
utes are finite and hours minute. I fear
aging with no growth.

I swear I can feel the weak hairs leav-
ing my head. They’re stuck in my collar.
My dad kept his hair but blew out his
brains. He left a mess. I’m afraid people
see through my beard and know I’m a boy.

 

I can’t stop washing until all of the dish-
es are done. An empty sink can stare
back. I don’t think it should hurt to be
clean, to have chaste chrome. I wonder if
my head will fit down the disposal.

 

I’ve been told sadness doesn’t always breed
good art. I once believed in productive suffer-
ing, but now I have you and know I am
wrong. I’m happy and turn sharp phrases.
My glasses are crooked, not my head.

 

I’ll stumble if conscious of the steps I take

dizzy spells fits and a swift tum-

ble down a staircase. Forced solitude is
okay, but I don’t endorse loneliness. Don’t you
also worry if:

1. My family loves me?
2. I’m clever enough?
3. My teeth will choke me in my sleep?
4. Our sun will die before I’m done?
5. Obsession and anxiety and living are one?

You’ve got me thinking     I have this
animal love for you that makes sense. It
takes my person away. Leaves me stable.
You tame all the words fighting, breaking
through my membrane

in bone tissue. We’re finally home and
deserve no less than to be nomads no
more. It’s still technically today, you tell
me, and I feel human
enough.